The Wall Street Girl

“What have you been eating?”

“Doughnuts and coffee, mostly.”

“That isn’t nearly so good for you,” she declared.

He adjusted himself comfortably.

“This is like getting back home,” he said.

“Home?”

She spoke the word with a frightened, cynical laugh.

“Well, it’s more like home than eating alone at the other places,” he said.

“They are all alike,” she returned–“just places in which to eat.”

She said it with some point, but he did not see the point. He took a bite of his egg sandwich.

“Honest, this tastes pretty good,” he assured her.

He was eating with a relish and satisfaction that he had not known for a long time. It was clear that the credit for this was due in some way to Sarah Kendall Winthrop, though that was an equally curious phenomenon. Except that he had, or assumed, the privilege of talking to her, she was scarcely as intimate a feature of his life as Nora.

“How do you like your new work?” she inquired.

“It’s fierce,” he answered. “It’s mostly arithmetic.”

“It all helps,” she said. “All you have to do now is just to keep at it. Keeping posted on the bonds?”

“Yes. But as fast as I learn a new one, it’s sold.”

“That’s all right,” she answered. “The more you learn, the better. Some day Mr. Farnsworth will call you in and turn you loose on your friends.”

“You think so?”

“I know it, if you keep going. But you can’t let up–not for one day.”

“If I can only last through the summer,” he reflected aloud. “Have you ever spent a summer in town?”

“Where else would I spend a summer?” she inquired.

“I like the mountains myself. Ever been to Fabyan House?”

She looked to see if he was joking. He was not. He had spent the last three summers very pleasantly in the White Mountains.

“No,” she answered. “A ten-cent trolley trip is my limit.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere I can find trees or water. You can get quite a trip right in Central Park, and it’s good fun to watch the kiddies getting an airing.”

There was a note in her voice that made him turn his head toward her. The color sprang to her cheeks.

“It’s time I was getting back,” she announced as she rose. “This is Mr. Seagraves’s busy day.”

“But look here; I haven’t finished my éclair!”

“Then you’d better devote the next five minutes to that,” she advised.

She disappeared through the door, and in another second was blended with a thousand others.

Don drew out his memorandum book and made the following entry:–

“Visit Central Park some day and watch the kiddies.”

CHAPTER XVII

ON THE WAY HOME

Frances wrote him enthusiastically from London. In her big, sprawling handwriting the letter covered eight pages. Toward the end she added:–

I miss you quite a lot, Don, dear, especially on foggy days. Please don’t work too hard, and remember that I am, as always,

Your FRANCES.

Well, that was something to know–that she was always his, even in London. London was a long way from New York, and of course he could not expect her to go abroad and then spend all her time writing to him. He went up to the club after reading this, and wrote her a letter twenty pages long. It was a very sentimental letter, but it did him good. The next day he returned to the office decidedly refreshed. In fact, he put in one of the best weeks there since he had taken his position. When Saturday came he was sorry that it was a half-holiday: he would have liked to work even through Sunday.

He left the office that day at a little before twelve, and stood on the corner waiting for Miss Winthrop. They had lunched together every day during the week; but he had not mentioned meeting her to-day, because he had come to the conclusion that the only successful way to do that was to capture her. So she came out quite jauntily and confidently, and almost ran into him as he raised his hat.

She glanced about uneasily.

“Please–we mustn’t stand here.”

“Then I’ll walk a little way with you.”

So he accompanied her to the Elevated station, and then up the steps, and as near as she could judge purposed entering the train with her. He revealed no urgent business. He merely talked at random, as he had at lunch.

She allowed two trains to pass, and then said:–

“I must go home now.”

“It seems to me you are always on the point of going home,” he complained. “What do you do after you get there?”

“I have a great many things to do,” she informed him.

“You have dinner?”

“Yes.”

“Sometimes I have dinner too,” he nodded. “Then what do you do?”

“I have a great many things to do,” she repeated.

“I don’t have anything to do after dinner,” he said. “I just wander around until it’s time to go to bed.”

“That’s a waste of time.”

“I know it. It’s just killing time until the next day.”

She appeared interested.

“You have many friends?”

“They are all in London and Paris,” he answered.

“You have relatives.”

“No,” he answered. “You see, I live all alone. Dad left me a house, but–well, he didn’t leave any one in it except the servants.”

“You live in a house all by yourself?”

He nodded.

Mr. Pendleton lived in a house! That was a wonderful thing to her. She had almost forgotten that any one lived in whole houses any more. She was eager to hear more. So, when the next train came along she stepped into it, and he followed, although she had not intended to allow this.

“I wish you would tell me about your house,” she said wistfully.

So, on the way uptown, he tried to describe it to her. He told her where it was, and that quite took away her breath; and how his father had bought it; and how many rooms there were; and how it was furnished; and, finally, how he came to be living in it himself on a salary of twenty-five dollars a week. As she listened her eyes grew round and full.

“My, but you’re lucky!” she exclaimed. “I should think you’d want to spend there every minute you could get.”

“Why?” he asked in surprise.

“Just because it’s your house,” she answered. “Just because it’s all your own.”

“I don’t see it,” he answered.

“And what do you want of ten thousand a year?” she demanded. “You can live like a king on what you’re drawing now.”

“You don’t mean that?” he asked.

“I don’t mean you ought to give up trying for the big jobs,” she said quickly. “You ought to try all the harder for those, because that’s all that’s left for you to try for. With everything else provided, you ought to make a name for yourself. Why, you’re free to work for nothing else.”

“On twenty-five dollars a week?”

“And a house that’s all your own. With a roof over your head no one can take away, and heat and light–why, it’s a fortune and your twenty-five so much extra.”

“Well, I have to eat,” he observed.

“Yes, you have to eat.”

“And wear clothes.”

She was doing that and paying her rent out of fifteen.

“I don’t see what you do with all your money,” she answered.

At this point she stepped out of the train, and he followed her. She went down the stairs to the street, and he continued to follow. She was on her way to the delicatessen store to buy her provisions for the night and Sunday. Apparently it was his intention to go there with her. At the door of the little shop she stopped.

“I’m going in here,” she informed him, as if that concluded the interview.

He merely nodded and opened the door for her. She was beginning to be worried. At this rate there was no knowing but what he might follow her right home.

“I’m going to buy my provisions for to-morrow,” she further informed him.

“I suppose I must get something too,” he answered. “Can’t I buy it here?”

“It’s a public place,” she admitted.

“Then come on.”

So they entered together, and Hans greeted them both with a smile, as if this were the most natural thing in the world. But Miss Winthrop herself was decidedly embarrassed. This seemed a very intimate business to be sharing with a man. On the other hand, she did not propose to have her plans put out by a man. So she ordered half a pound of butter and a jar of milk and some cheese and some cold roast and potato salad for that night and a lamb chop for Sunday, and one or two other little things, the whole coming to eighty-five cents.

“Now,” he asked, when she had concluded, “what do you think I’d better order?”

Her cheeks were flushed, and she knew it.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” she answered.

He saw some eggs.

“I might as well have a dozen eggs to start with,” he began.

“Is there only yourself?” she inquired.

“Yes,” he answered.

“Then I should think a half-dozen would do.”

“A half-dozen,” he corrected the order.

Then he thought of chops.

“A pound or two of chops,” he ordered.

“If you have eggs for breakfast, you will need chops only for dinner. Two chops will be enough.”

Before she was through she had done practically all his ordering for him,–because she could not bear to see waste,–and the total came to about one half what it usually cost him. He thought there must be some mistake, and insisted that Hans make a second reckoning. The total was the same.

“I shall trade with you altogether after this,” he informed the pleased proprietor.

There were several packages, but Hans bound them together into two rather large-sized ones. With one of these in each hand, Don came out upon the street with Miss Winthrop.

“I’m going home now,” she announced.

“There you are again!” he exclaimed.

“But I must.”

“I suppose you think I ought to go home.”

“Certainly.”

“Look here–doesn’t it seem sort of foolish to prepare two lunches in two different places. Doesn’t it seem rather wasteful?”

Offhand, it did. And yet there was something wrong with that argument somewhere.

“It may be wasteful, but it’s necessary,” she replied.

“Now, is it?” he asked. “Why can’t we go downtown somewhere and lunch together?”

“You must go home with your bundles,” she said, grasping at the most obvious fact she could think of at the moment.

“If that’s the only difficulty, I can call a messenger,” he replied instantly.

“And lose all you’ve saved by coming ’way up here? I won’t listen to it.”

“Then I’ll go home with them and come back.”

“It will be too late for lunch then.”

“I can take a taxi and–”

“No wonder your salary isn’t enough if you do such things!” she interrupted. “If you had ten thousand a year, you would probably manage to spend it all.”

“I haven’t a doubt of it,” he answered cheerfully. “On the other hand, it would get me out of such predicaments as these.”

Apparently he was content to stand here in front of the little shop the rest of the afternoon, debating this and similar points. It was necessary for her to take matters into her own hands.

“The sensible thing for you to do is to go home and have lunch,” she decided.

“And then?”

“Oh, I can’t plan your whole day for you. But you ought to get out in the sunshine.”

“Then I’ll meet you in the park at three?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Will you come?”

She was upon the point of saying no, when she made the mistake of meeting his eyes. They were honest, direct, eager. It was so easy to promise whatever they asked and so hard to be always opposing them. She answered impulsively:–

“Yes.”

But she paid for her impulse, as she generally did, by being sorry as soon as she was out of sight of him. The first thing she knew, she would be back where she was a month ago, and that would never do–never do at all.

CHAPTER XVIII

A DISCOURSE ON SALARIES

Until Miss Winthrop allowed Pendleton to spend with her that afternoon in the park, the period between the close of business on Saturday and the opening on Monday had furnished her with a natural protective barrier. On one side of this stood the business world of Carter, Rand & Seagraves, to which Pendleton himself belonged; on the other side was her own private, personal world. Now that barrier was down. Without realizing at the time the significance of his request,–a request so honestly and smilingly made that it took her off her guard,–she had allowed him, for a period of a couple of hours, to enter that personal world. By her side he had explored with her the familiar paths in the park which until then had been all her own. He had made himself a part of them. Never again could she follow them without, in a sense, having him with her.

She realized this because when, at five o’clock, she had told him to leave her at the foot of the Elevated, she had watched him out of sight, and then, instead of going home as she intended, she had turned and gone back to the park. She had a vague notion that she must put her life back upon its normal basis before returning to her room. If only for a few moments, she must go over the old paths alone.

It was impossible. Everywhere she turned, it was to recall some careless phrase or gesture or expression of his–to react to them again exactly as when he had been with her. And this man had nothing whatever to do with the office of Carter, Rand & Seagraves. She could not force him back there; he insisted upon remaining on the personal side of the barrier.

It was curious how quickly she accepted the situation after her first startled surprise. After all, if she was going to retain her interest in him in any way, it was as necessary to help him outside the office as within. One opportunity had been offered her that very afternoon in making him understand that it was perfectly possible to enjoy a half-holiday without spending all the money in his pocket.

His attitude toward money puzzled her. In one way he seemed to place too much value upon it, and in another way not enough. He overemphasized the importance of a ten-thousand-dollar salary, making that the one goal of his business efforts, and then calmly proposed squandering dollar bills on confectionery and what not as an incident to as simple an amusement as a walk in the park. He neither knew how little a dollar was worth, nor how much. She herself had learned out of hard experience, and if she could only make him understand–well, that at least furnished her with some sort of excuse for allowing this new relationship to continue.

For all any one knows, there may be some divine reason that prompts women to find excuses in such matters–which, in a way, forces them willy-nilly to the making of such excuses.

And yet, she had to admit that it was stretching the excuse pretty far when, a week later, she meekly allowed him to come with her on her usual Sunday outing into the country. By steady cross-examination he had made her divulge the fact that it was her interesting habit to prepare a luncheon of bread and butter and cake, and, taking a train, to spend the day by the side of a brook she had discovered.

“Fine,” he nodded. “Next Sunday I’ll go with you.”

That afternoon he started making his preparations.

Obviously, the first thing necessary was a luncheon basket, and on his way uptown he saw one of English wicker that took his fancy. It had compartments with bottles and a whole outfit of knives and forks and plates and little drinking-cups and what not. What it cost is nobody’s business. Then he stopped at a very nice grocery store on Fifth Avenue and asked the advice of the clerk about the more substantial contents, and the clerk gave his advice very willingly. He bought some French sardines and English marmalade, and some fruit and confectionery and some strictly fresh eggs and dainty crackers and some jelly and olives and cheese and several other little things.

“Now,” suggested the clerk, “a small chicken roasted and served cold would be very nice.”

“Right,” nodded Don.

“I could order it for you from here.”

“Right again,” agreed Don.

It was to be sent to the house, so that Nora could have it roasted that afternoon.

He accomplished these things on his way uptown, and felt quite satisfied with himself. This preparing of a picnic basket was, after all, a very simple matter.

When Miss Winthrop came into the station for the nine-thirty, he was waiting for her with the big wicker basket in his hand.

They rode to a little village hardly large enough to have a name, and getting out there took to the open road.

Don enjoyed the tramp of three miles that followed, but, on the whole, he was glad when they reached the border of the brook. The walking and the flowers and the scenery occupied too much of the girl’s attention. Not only that, but this English wicker basket became heavy in the course of time. At the end of a mile or so it seemed as if the clerk must have lined the bottom of his basket with stones. Don meant to investigate at the first opportunity.

The stream that she had discovered only after several seasons of ardent exploration was not, geographically considered, of any especial importance to the world at large. But behind the clump of alders out of which it crept was a bit of pasture greensward about as big as a room. Here one might lunch in as complete seclusion as if in the Canadian woods or in the heart of Africa.

She was as eager to have him pleased as if this were some house of her planning. “It’s a better dining-place than any in town, isn’t it?” she asked.

“I should say so,” he nodded.

With her permission, he lighted a cigarette and, stretching himself out on the grass, enjoyed it as only a man can who has limited his smokes to so many a day. She sat near the brook, and she too was quite content and very comfortable.

“I don’t see why you didn’t tell me about this place before,” he observed.

“I wasn’t quite sure you’d like it here, for one thing,” she answered.

“Why not?”

“It isn’t a very gay place, is it?”

“It’s considerably gayer than my house on a Sunday,” he answered.

“It’s your own fault you don’t enjoy your house more,” she declared.

“How is it?”

“Why, it’s a wonderful thing to have a house all of your own. I used to pretend this was a house all of my own.”

“Don’t you any longer?”

She was wondering how it would be about that, now that she had allowed him to enter. Of course, she might treat him merely as a guest here; but that was difficult, because the only thing she based her sense of ownership on was the fact that no one else knew anything about the place. She shook her head.

“It’s hard to pretend anything except when you’re alone,” she answered.

He sat up.

“Then you oughtn’t to have let me come here with you.”

She smiled.

“How could I help it? You just came.”

“I know it,” he admitted. “I’m always butting in, and you ought to tell me so every now and then.”

“Would that make any difference?”

“I don’t know as it would,” he admitted. “But it might make me uncomfortable.”

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. I think you manage to make yourself uncomfortable enough, as it is. And that’s absurd, because just being a man ought to keep you happy all the time.”

“I don’t see how you figure that,” he answered.

“Being a man is being able to do about anything you wish.”

“Don’t you believe it,” he replied. “Having money is the only thing that makes you able to do what you wish.”

“Oh, dear!” she exclaimed. “Are you going back to that ten thousand a year?”

“Pretty soon now it will be September,” he reflected irrelevantly.

“And then?”

“I had rather hoped to get it by then.”

“Well, you won’t, so you’d better forget it. I shouldn’t wonder but what you received a raise to two thousand if Farnsworth gets you out selling, and that ought to satisfy you.”

Don looked up. Somehow, every time she put it that way it did sound enough. Beside the brook it sounded like plenty.

“Look here,” he exclaimed. “Would you marry a man who was only drawing a salary of two thousand?”

For a moment the question confused her, but only for a moment.

“If I was willing to take my chance with a man,” she said, “his salary of two thousand would be the least of my troubles.”

“You mean you think two could live on that?”

“Of course they could,” she answered shortly.

“And have enough to buy clothes and all those things?”

“And put money in the bank if they weren’t two fools,” she replied.

“But look here,” he continued, clinging to the subject when it was quite evident she was willing to drop it. “I’ve heard that hats cost fifty dollars and more apiece, and gowns anywhere from two hundred to five.”

“Yes,” she nodded; “I’ve heard that.”

“Well, don’t they?” he persisted.

“I don’t remember ever getting any bill of that size,” she answered with a smile.

“What do your bills amount to?” he inquired.

Miss Winthrop hesitated a moment.

“If you want to know,” she answered finally, “this hat cost me some three dollars with the trimmings. And if I ever paid more than twenty-five dollars for a suit, I’d want some one to appoint a guardian for me.”

There certainly was a wide margin of difference here in the estimates made by two women–a difference not accounted for, as far as Don could see, in the visible results. He would have liked to continue more into details, but Miss Winthrop rose as if to put an end to this subject.

“I’m hungry,” she announced.

“Right,” he nodded. “There’s my basket over there, and I’ll let you set the table.”

Her idea had been that he was to eat his luncheon and she hers. However, she had no objection to making things ready for him. So she brought the basket over in front of him and opened it. She gave one look into it.

“Did you buy all this?” she demanded.

“Why, yes,” he answered.

She removed the napkin and saw the cold chicken.

“Didn’t you know any better, or were you just trying to see how much money you could throw away?” she inquired.

“Don’t you like chicken?”

“Yes, I like chicken,” she answered.

“There are other things underneath, and hot coffee in the bottles,” he announced.

Just to see how far he had gone, she took out the other things. She caught her breath.

“Well, it’s your own affair,” she commented. “But, if you eat all this, I’m sorry for you.”

She spread a napkin before him and placed the chicken on it, surrounding it with the tin of sardines, the boxes of crackers, the jar of marmalade, the cheese, the confectionery, and other things. Then she unrolled her own package of sandwiches, and proceeded to munch one.

“Look here!” he exclaimed. “You didn’t think I bought this all for myself?”

“I’d rather think that than to think you thought I was silly enough to want you to throw away your money.”

He was carving the chicken, and he handed her a portion upon one of the bright aluminum plates. But she shook her head in refusal.

“You aren’t going to have any of this?”

“No, thank you.”

“I call that rather too bad, because if you don’t it will be wasted.”

“It was wasted when you bought it.”

“But you didn’t tell me what to get.”

“I told you we’d each bring our own luncheon,” she reminded him.

“And so we did; but I don’t call it very friendly of you not to share with me.”

“I have quite enough of my own.”

She seemed determined about the matter, so he put all the things back again in the basket, closed and fastened the lid, and, placing it to one side, lighted a fresh cigarette. She watched him in amazement.

“Aren’t you going to eat your lunch?” she demanded.

“I refuse to eat alone.”

“I’m the one who is eating alone,” she said.

“That seems to be what you want.”

“You’ve no right to do things and then blame me for them,” she protested.

“You’re doing all the blaming yourself,” he returned.

For a moment she continued to eat her sandwich in silence and to watch his set face. She was quite sure he would remain stubborn in the stand he had taken.

“It was silly enough to buy all those expensive things, but it would be even sillier to throw them away,” she asserted.

“It would at least be too bad,” he confessed. “But I can’t help it, can I? I can’t make you eat, you know.”

There he went again, placing the whole blame on her.

“Hand me that basket,” she ordered.

He handed her the basket, and she brought out the delicacies.

“Next time I shall prepare both lunches,” she declared.